You're Just You!

Picture it – Sicily – 1987.  Wait a minute, wrong story, but we sure do miss you Sophia Petrillo and your witty humor.

Take two!  Picture it – Biddeford, Maine – 1988.  Like so many of my classmates, I balanced homework, soccer, theatre and other extracurricular activities with working evenings and weekends to save money for college.  After a brief stint at a local restaurant called the Dry Dock, I started worked part time at Wellby Super Drug, a subsidiary of Hannaford Brothers and local drug store chain that operated primarily in Maine and New Hampshire.

I have always believed that everyone needs to spend some time in their life working in either retail or the food and service industry.  It’s hard work, often with little pay, and makes you better appreciate the importance of both giving and acknowledging good customer service, something that has become more and more rare in a society more interested in social media and consumed with self-entitlement.  But I digress.

During my time at Wellby, I met one of those people that truly stand out in your life – you know - the kind of person that makes an indelible impact on your sense of self and whom you look back upon with fondness and admiration even though your paths no longer cross.  Her name was Danielle, and she was the manager at the Biddeford location – the largest volume store in the 41 retail chain.  She managed with humor and kindness and had a genuine interest in the lives of her employees and the majority of their time spent “not on the clock.”  She was the kind of person who wanted to know about your parents, how your classes were going, and particularly for the young people that worked there, what was in store for their future.  And perhaps most notably, she was willing to take risks to give young people considerable responsibility when few others would have been so inclined.

At 17 years old, she gave me the position of Shift Leader:  this position essentially managed the team and operations when the manager or assistant manager were not there – mostly in the evenings.  At 17, I had become the youngest shift-leader in the entire chain, and to her credit several of my classmates earned the same title.

During my time as shift leader, the biggest lesson I learned was how to manage people with respect – people who for the most part were often much older than I was, a skill that would prove to be useful later in life in politics.  The friendships I made may not have lasted a lifetime – as people come and go in this kind of business – but they will stay with me forever.  I most remember Sharon - a woman who had never finished high school and finding herself later in life with a family all grown up and with grandchildren - decided to take on a part time job for something to do.  We talked a lot about not finishing high school and how she had wished she had.  I told her that it was never too late to go back to school – and that’s just what she did!  I could not have been more proud to watch this incredible woman graduate from high school and receive her diploma!  Those are the moments in life you never forget.

Wellby Super Drug served as a backdrop for many important things in my life – a job to help save for college, a location to perform my Eagle Scout service project which was offering free fingerprinting for all fourth graders in the Biddeford Public Schools and even a place for fundraisers for various high school clubs.  But even in a French speaking community, it also served as a place to practice my Spanish – in public – and with lots of laughs!

During my freshman year, Biddeford High School began a pilot Spanish program.  Before this time, French and Latin were the only offerings in the Foreign Language Department.  Biddeford is a Franco-American community and so, the French program made a lot of sense.  Here’s the problem – I had a really hard time with pronunciation (we had been required t to take some basic French in Junior High School so I knew what was in store) and knowing that while French was an important part of the culture of my local community, I believed Spanish would be more practical in the long run.

Each night, about 10 minutes before Wellby Super Drug would close – we would make an announcement over the intercom to alert customers to bring their final purchases to the front of the store.  Very proud of my newly learned Spanish – I decided one night to do the announcement in both English and Spanish:

Attencion – Welby Super Drug será cerrar en diez minutos.  Por favor, trae sus compras al frente a la tienda donde estaremos encantados de ayudarle.  Muchas gracias and espero que tenga buena noche. 

Please note that I have cleaned this up a little for this post – it was probably a lot rougher back then!  And by the way, you can download an app called Duolingo and learn a language with 5 minutes of practice each day. 

Well you should have seen the look on the faces of the older French ladies shopping when this announcement came over the intercom.  It was as if – “wait a minute, that’s not French.  I am so confused!”  Fortunately, there was the English version as well.  This soon became a big hit at the end of each night at Wellby Super Drug – at least to me it did!  Coupled with these announcements and my Halloween costume one year as a Mexican Ranchero, I came to be known as Pedro, a nickname that would later be replaced years later with Mary!  But that’s another story!  Below is the real picture in the back room of Wellby!

Danielle, the store manager, upon hearing of my new version of the closing announcement brought me into her office later that week (I thought I was going to be in trouble) and with a smile on her face proclaimed, “Peter, you’re just you.”  I have to admit I was a little confused as to what she meant – but I proudly embraced her comment and have throughout life often thought of that moment.  I now know through and through, that yes I am just me and I do indeed march to my own drummer.  As the song goes, “I am my own special creation.”  But in reality, aren’t we all?  

More than 25 years later, I found myself retreating from Washington. DC the Inaugural weekend in 2017.  I connected with a college roommate and one of my dearest Lourdes – who is Cuban American and helped me practice my Spanish all during college.  New and old friends alike went to see Kinky Boots on Broadway – a story of a shoe factory, that in the wake of a declining domestic shoe market, transforms itself into a supplier of boots for drag queens!

I was struck by a moment in the show when the lead character, Lola - a big ‘ol drag queen, challenges her working class nemesis Don to a bet.  Lola will fight Don in a boxing match (little does he know her father was trained as a professional boxer but she lets him win anyway) and he has to “accept someone for who they truly are” – which turns out to be the heir son of the factory who is desperately trying to save the jobs at the factory.

Thanks Lola for the reminder to accept someone for who they truly are.  And thank you Danielle for instilling in me the courage to proclaim proudly “Peter – you are just you!” 

Return of the Blog

Happy weekend everyone!  I'm bringing back my blog and am already cooking up my first post which I will put up tomorrow.  This will be my attempt to find good in the world and the community around us, use humor hopefully, be real and have some fun.  It will mostly NOT be political, but when something strikes me, I might throw that in there as well.  I figure I post enough about that on Facebook - not to complain but because I truly believe it matters.

The power of our words is one of the best gifts we have - and I will attempt to use mine to bring a little bit of peace and order in my life at a time when the world seems somewhat upside down.

Tune in tomorrow - I hope you will like it!

Running as Fast as I Can

A little over a year ago, I started this blog and wrote in my first post: “The milestone birthday of 40 will be here at the end of the year.   Not quite dreading it but also not jumping up and down for it to come, I find myself turning inward never quite content with the here and now, but striving to find the self awareness to know when I am in fact truly there.” Traveling back and forth between Portland, Maine and Washington, D.C. for the better part of a decade, I was always asking, “Are we there yet?” instead of just being present in the moment – that is, until this past week.

The 40^th birthday came and went in December with a wonderful trip to Costa Rica with four of my dear friends.  And I got to ring in the year with two special friends from Maine at their home in Santa Fe.  Somehow turning 40 was not the epic event I thought it might be – no mid life crisis or gripping depression, but instead great adventures, good food and new memories with some of the most important people in my life. 

When I got up on Monday, February 27^th, I thought it would be another ordinary week in Washington, and in fact, it was until 4:02 pm the next day.  That’s when news of Senator Olympia Snowe’s retirement hit Washington and gave new meaning to the term Snowmageddon.  For the next 24 hours, I would work with my boss Congressman Mike Michaud, one of the hardest working Members of Congress, to help guide him through his decision of whether or not to jump into the Senate race.  I packed the Jeep and my two dogs Alex and Hunter and drove through rain and snow to Maine to begin a potential Senate campaign.  But by Thursday night, Mike had decided not to run for the Senate and instead run for re-election to the House– believing there was still work to be done for the people of Northern Maine.  Perhaps the veteran he saw at the airport before his flight home sealed the deal for Mike when he asked him, “But who will fight for the veterans if you leave the House?” 

Mike’s decision behind him, I was faced with a decision of my own as Congresswoman Pingree was also considering a run for the Senate.  Ever since I was a young boy growing up in Biddeford, Maine, I had always wanted to run for Congress.  The son of a middle class family, I worked hard in Biddeford public schools and got accepted to Wesleyan University.  But paying for college was tough – it required financial sacrifice from both sets of my parents, it required me to snatch up every hour of overtime I could get at Wellby Super Drug Store at 5 Points in Biddeford, it required loans from the federal government, and it required a job during all four years of college.  There would be no study abroad or spring breaks in Florida – every spare dollar had to go to paying for college.  And when I was finished, I had the incredible opportunity to come home to Maine – an opportunity that I believe is slipping away for young people here in Maine. 

I also spent 10 years working for Congressman Michaud – and I learned the values of not making excuses, respecting people’s ideas different than your own, and putting what’s right for Maine above partisanship.  After consulting with my family, my two best friends in Portland and a handful of colleagues I have worked with over the years, I made the decision to run for Maine’s First Congressional District should Congresswoman Pingree decide to run for the Senate.  In the end, she made the difficult decision to run for the House, but during those six days, I had perhaps the most exciting, incredible experience of my life, and I wanted to share some of what happened on that short journey.

First and perhaps foremost, I was reminded why working for Congressman Mike Michaud is such an incredible honor.  When I told him of my desire to run, he was gracious and supportive and even called me each day to see how I was holding up.  Our nation needs more people like Mike Michaud in Washington.

The morning of my final decision, a call happened that I will never forget.  My step mom in Gorham called my mom in Biddeford to say this would be a full family effort on my behalf.  And every day of this brief campaign, all four of my parents remained true to that phone call.  I think the decision not to ultimately run was toughest on my sister as she was prepared to feed an army of volunteers throughout this campaign.  I had even appointer her “Comfort Captain.”

Friends from all parts of Maine and around the country offered to help with gathering signatures, setting up an online presence, writing a check – whatever we needed to get up and running.  In just 6 days, they helped put all of the mechanics in place to launch a top-notch campaign I know would have made the people of Maine proud.  Throughout this process, I learned how truly blessed I am to have so many loyal friends.  One friend who shall remain anonymous not only agreed without hesitation to send me $1,000 when I asked her, but got off the phone after my call and got checks from other family members, all of which had arrived in the mail by Tuesday. 

Getting on the ballot in Maine requires 1,000 certified signatures of registered Democrats.  Again – I was so humbled at the efforts of family and friends to collect these, and we were close to having what we needed when Congresswoman Pingree decided not to run for the Senate.  Others had their bags packed to come to Maine this weekend at their own expense to go door to door in my home town of Biddeford to complete the signature effort.

There are countless stories of friends giving selflessly of their time, and while I am single and have no children, I can honestly say I am lucky to have a supporting and loving family that numbers in the hundreds.  Many asked me last Wednesday if I was doing ok or if I was sad.  There was no sadness and in fact, I have never felt more happy or alive.  In those six days, I think I grew more as a person than in my previous 40 years on this earth.  I learned to always value your friends, to work hard for something you believe in, to rise above the petty and not sweat the small stuff, to never forget the importance of family, and most importantly, to be thankful for the opportunities you have in life and to appreciate the help of those who got your there.

Instead of asking myself, “are we there yet?” I think I will focus more on the present, because I think I have always ‘been there.”  No matter what happens in the future, I am most deeply blessed.  Working in the U.S. Congress has been an incredible honor – especially for a kid who grew up without privilege from a small town in Maine.   

Ready, Aim, Fire!

Several months ago, I agreed to help set up a gun safety and product demo for Smith and Wesson, a company that manufactures fire arms among other things in northern Maine.  They are a great company and provide good jobs for Mainers. 

I’ve never really been a fan of guns.  I have never hunted and guns were never a part of my family’s culture when I was growing up.  As a bright eyed uber liberal at Wesleyan University, the basis of the movie PCU which gives you an idea how liberal my college was, I remember trying to bring Sarah Brady to my college campus for a lecture on handgun control. 

But like with many things, we grow older, more tolerant of other views and less judgmental in our political views.  For the last 20 years, I have worked in politics in Maine and have come to see the other side of this issue – shooting and hunting is a part of Maine’s culture just like fishing, boating and hiking.  Over 60,000 households own a gun in Maine’s Second Congressional District.  And these folks take gun safety very seriously. 

Now with all of that said, I didn’t really think I was going to have to participate in this gun demo that we scheduled for this week.  But peer pressure set in, and it was important to our office that I participate. 

Dreary eyed and exhausted after the end of the debt limit debate and final votes, I begrudgingly made my way to the office on Wednesday morning, all the while dreading this activity I had reluctantly agreed to.  I deliberately waited until the end of the 4-hour demo hoping there wouldn’t be a lot of staffers around to watch what I was sure would amount to nothing short of a giant embarrassment. 

Well so much for deliberate planning.  I got lost in the underground parking garage as I trudged over and as if par for the course, I was picked up by one of the maintenance guys in his little buggy and driven to the proper location.  As we whizzed from level G1 to G2 and then back down to G1, I only wished I had giant sunglasses and a head wrap.  I finally arrived in grand style at the Capitol Police Shooting Range in the basement of the Rayburn Office building, and much to my chagrin, it was packed.  “Suck it up,” I sighed to myself and signed in.

After a safety lesson, I donned some earplugs, eye goggles and ear protective wear and headed in through door 1 and then door 2 of the firing range.  When it was my turn, the safety instructor asked if I had ever fired a gun before and was then shocked by answer given the fact I had grown up in Maine.  Hands trembling, I picked up the 9-millimeter handgun and pointed it at the big white T in the target silhouette.  I fired and missed.  I fired again and missed.  The instructor told me to relax and lighten my grip.  “Let the gun do the work,” he said.  Well Bam Bam, the next shot hit the target dead on.  I started laughing with giddy excitement and tried again.  Bam Bam – I hit the target again.  By this point I was trembling so much, I couldn’t have it again if I tried.

Next station – the rifle!  Now this was fun.  The gun was light and had an automatic laser sight, which made hitting your target much easier.  9 out of my 10 shots went where they were supposed to and I exited the firing range proud as pie for my accomplishment.

I probably won’t be purchasing any camouflage gear anytime soon, but I will say it was extremely fun, and I’d probably do it again.  How’s that for stepping outside your comfort zone!

Heat on the Hill

For the last several weeks, against the backdrop of the debt crisis in Washington, I have woken up every morning with a similar thought:  are we there yet?  Every day, friends have asked, “Is there going to be a deal?  When is this going to end?”  And each time, I have answered, “I really don’t know what is going to happen.”

To say that it has been a long slog since July 4^th weekend would be an understatement.  It’s been nearly 100 degrees most days, tensions on the Hill have been high, tempers have been short, and most importantly, my 2 dogs have been on Holiday at the grandparent’s house in Maine, making it extremely lonely here.

Yesterday afternoon, I called my mom to update her on the latest machinations in Washington on the debt crisis and had her put the dogs on the phone.  Hunter intently listened seemingly believing this was some cruel trick all the while knowing I was really 650 miles away.  Alex began wagging his tail in anticipation I would jump out from behind the couch and yell, “Surprise!”  It was a brief moment of joy from an otherwise never ending oppressive combination of exhaustion and exasperation caused by the heat and debt crisis respectively.

So where are we with just 2 days left to the looking deadline of August 2^nd?  News sources report that the GOP is “very close” to a deal with the President, which causes me to have hope but also great trepidation. 

It is mind boggling to me that multi national corporations and the wealthiest Americans who are where they are because of yes hard work, but also the greatness of America, are not being asked to pay their fair share while some have suggested cuts to Social Security and Medicare.  It is mind numbing to me that we are still in Afghanistan at a cost of roughly $190 million U.S. dollars a day but we have allowed this crisis to get to the point where our men and women in uniform wonder if they will get paid next month and veterans come home with untold costs of PTSD and traumatic brain injury.  And it is wildly frustrating knowing that extending the Bush tax cuts last December added over a trillion dollars to our deficit, thereby at least in part, necessitating the raising of the debt limit in the first place.

You know, I agree that Washington needs to get spending in control, but to suggest that cuts alone will solve this problem is naïve at best.  So here’s what I would do to get us to an affirmative answer to the question of “Are we there yet?”

1. Let the Bush tax cuts expire.  The so called job creators (the wealthiest Americans) didn’t create any jobs since these were first enacted in 2001 and later in 2003 – in fact, they eliminated jobs to protect their massive wealth.  Cost:  roughly $1 trillion.

2. End the wars in Afghanistan and bring the troops home from Iraq.  If the Soviet Union couldn’t create stability in Afghanistan with very different rules of engagements, what makes us think we can?  Cost:  roughly $1 trillion.

3. Require the Department of Health and Human Services to negotiate for drug prices in the $500 billion Medicare drug program; something the Veterans Administration already does on behalf of our veterans.  Cost:  Estimated tens of billions in savings

4. Spending cuts that don’t cut benefits to seniors; Social Security or Medicare – after all they worked their whole lives and it’s their money.  Cost:  $1 trillion

5. Eliminate tax breaks for oil corporations and subsidies for ethanol.  After all, oil companies are experiencing record profits and federal law mandates ethanol in gas so these corn growers are guaranteed a market anyway.  Cost:  Roughly $40 billion

That’s how I believe we could at least begin to tackle this problem.  The last time we had a federal surplus, we achieved it through deficit reduction that raised taxes, ghastly I know, and cut spending.  And if memory serves me correctly, the people who saw their taxes go up, experienced a decade of incredible wealth. 

But anyway – back to reality. There’s two days left.  I hope this gets solved soon, and then I look forward to heading home to Maine – the way life should be.  Hunter and Alex are waiting.

Perspective

Several weeks ago, I received an email notice that the LGBT Congressional Staff Association was trying to form a team to compete in the Stonewall Kickball League.  “What could be more fun than a gay kickball league on Sunday evenings?”  I thought.  So I decided to add my name to the roster, paid my $25 fee and eagerly awaited the start of the season.

At 39 years old, I was determined that I still had the juice to play team sports, and nothing seemed more simple, easy and fun than kickball.  Here’s the best part – our team was to be called Pink Gingham, a name thrown out to all of us by the late President of the LGBT CSA Chris Crowe.

Chris, at a mere 29 years old, was to join us on the kickball team but tragically passed away just as the season was to get underway.  While I wasn’t close friends with Chris, I remember giving him an informational interview several years ago when he was trying to find a job on the Hill.  He was remembered by friends for his kindness, wonderful humor, warm personality and dedication to the fight for equality.  At our second kickball game, we all signed a team t-shirt for Chris which was presented to his family at a remembrance ceremony on the Hill. 

The news of Chris’ untimely death was a shock to all of us, and it served as an all too vivid reminder that our time on this earth can be cut short at a moment’s notice.  Perspective.

Kickball turned out to be an activity that I would look forward to each week.  Most importantly, it was a great opportunity to meet new people, many of whom I have probably seen numerous time but never really knew.  Pink Gingham took the field each week with a strong sense of purpose, but never quite seemed to capture a victory.

Channelling the chief of staff in me, I decided to emulate the feared red team known as “Sit on my Base” which would arrive on the field each Sunday night in high heels sporting air horns and vuvuzuelas.  They were obnoxious to be sure, but they were damn good at kickball, and their antics seemed to provide a hearty dose of team spirit and campy theatre.  I traveled out to Virginia and armed myself with whistles, an air horn of our own, pink string in a can, noisemakers and yup, pink lip stick to be used as war paint under our eyes.

I purchased these materials particularly for our match with none other than the “red team” and much to my chagrin, the game was cancelled because of a wet field.  I don’t need to tell you what happens when throngs of gay kickball players show up for games only to find out they have been cancelled, especially when the field is adjacent to Jrs Bar and Grill.  You remember my friend Jr?

The surprise stash of goodies would have to wait until the next week when we would finally face off against Sit on my Base.  When Sunday arrived, the tension in the air was palpable as Pink Gingham and Sit on my Base prepared for battle.  Thinking they would trounce us, they grew nervous when we remained tied at the bottom of the third inning.  We never did win that game, but we learned a thing or two about team spirit and never giving up.

Fast forward to last weekend – an evening of double headers for most teams to make up for the cancellation from weeks ago.  We tied our first game against Ball Busters and then went on to challenge Rogue Ballers.  To say that this team did not like our whistles would be an understatement, but I loved the fact that our loud charades really got under their skin.

And that’s when it happened.  Sometime in the third inning (the details are a little fuzzy), I went up to kick and after blasting it into the field, I began my sprint to first base.  One stride, two stride and then SNAP!  It felt like someone slammed an aluminum baseball bat into my right calf.  Limping in agony, I made it to first base where I was thankfully replaced with a runner.  Stupidly, I finished the game which ended in our first win of the season.  Pink Gingham Pride at last!

On Monday, I would find out that I had likely torn my calf muscle and on Tuesday, it would be confirmed by an orthopedic doctor.  Painful could not describe how my leg was feeling.  I was placed in a pneumatic boot and told I would need to wear it for at least 3 weeks, likely to be followed by a less intrusive special orthopedic shoe.  Dread came over me – no kickball, no gym, no training sessions, no walking to work.  After spending 2 years losing nearly 50 pounds, this was bad news indeed that prompted anger and depression.

On Wednesday evening after dropping off my prescription at CVS, I was walking along the sidewalk when I heard a young voice say, "Excuse me."  I turned to see a young probably around 8 year old girl riding her bike and quickly moved aside to allow her to pass.  As she did, she said to me with the attitude of Wanda Sykes, "Yuht, cuz you wouldn't want me to break your other leg."  Taking a beat to register this sistuation, I finalled responded, "You're rude."  Once she had gotten just far enough away from me, she turned and gave a nasty face.  Reeling, I looked around for parents to scold this young girl, but of course, none were to be found.  Just when I thought she was gone, she came back by on her little back and in a sicky sweet tiny voice said, "Hola," and disappeared out of sight.  I am not sure I have ever been taunted by an 8 year old!

The next morning, I boarded the train at Dupont Circle and immediately noticed a very buff, good-looking guy at the front of my car.  I could only see him front the waist up and he was wearing a muscle shirt which layed bare his giant biceps and numerous tattoos.   He had short cropped black hair and was the focus of many a lady (and well me) on that train.  Once the train had made one stop, he moved from where he was standing and walked down the aisle to take a seat.  And that’s when I saw.

Everything was physically perfect about this young man, except for the fact that he was missing a leg and instead had a prosthetic.  Admittedly, I tried not to stare, but I was shocked because it was not at all what I expected to see when he moved from out behind the first row of seats on the train.  I was sure he would have powerfully built legs to match his arms.

I am guessing that he was either a current member of our Armed Services or one of our proud veterans.  I wanted to go over to him and thank him for his service, but not knowing if this was in fact the case, I remained silent.

I thought a lot about that young man all day and decided that however frustrating my current debilitated state is, no matter how painful it can be, no matter how long it takes to recover, I still have my leg, and I will live to play another kick ball game, walk another mile, train another time. 

Perspective is exactly what we all need every now and again, and kickball gave me a double dose that I will never forget.

Game Changers

They say the early bird catches the worm, and as such, I got up early Friday morning so I could begin the 10 hour drive to Maine at a reasonable time.  By 7:20 am, I was headed out the door of my DC condo to load up the  Jeep which had been parked the night before in an ever so fortuitous spot right next to my building.

As I headed to the Jeep, I quickly realized that this early bird would in fact catch no worms, but rather a fat ‘ol $100 parking ticket instead.  For what you might ask?  For failure to obtain a proper DC parking permit.  I guess all that parking at the Capitol and taking the metro to work had simply delayed the inevitable.  When I return to DC in ten days, I suppose I shall head to the DMV and “obtain a proper DC parking permit.” 

After this most unfortunate mishap, I finished loading up the Jeep, gave the vegetables in my refrigerator to Rachel (the building character), took the dogs for a walk and departed Q Street at 8 am.  I stopped briefly at CVS to pick up a sugar free Red Bull and then we were on our way – earlier than ever before.  I was sure I could make Portland by dinner time!

When traveling, I like to pass the time by making little references on Facebook when I enter a new state, taking great care to tie them all together in some clever theme.  This time, I would do musical numbers!  And for all of you wondering, most Facebook posting takes place at rest areas and toll booths – I simply push send at the appropriate moment - so please keep the don’t text and drive comments to yourself. 

As we drove through the Harbor Tunnel, I posted Good Morning Baltimore as I envisioned myself riding atop a big green dump truck.  

Heading over the Delaware Memorial Bridge into New Jersey, I posted Jersey Boys and tried to imagine the words to a song from a show I have never seen and don’t really care to, but hey, it’s all I could come up with.  It was then time to think about lunch and that meant only one thing – veer off the Jersey Turnpike at Exit 7A for the only Chick Fil A I have been able to find near one of the exits. 

Now I am well aware that the corporate powers to be at Chick Fil A do not share my social or political viewpoints, but neither do Exxon Mobile or Shell, and I still stop there for gas.  My $7 purchase at Chick Fil A a few times a year will certainly never become a game changer so I put it out of mind each time, throw caution to the wind, and have my 1,000 calorie meal of bliss.  This time – meal deal #2 it was – Chick Fil A Deluxe, waffle fries and a diet coke thrown in for good measure.  I also splurged and asked for two special sauce packets.  After checking in at Chick Fil Aon Facebook, I then braced myself for the deluge of nasty responses from my coterie of liberal friends.  Much to my surprise, I only got one and it took almost 5 hours.  It read, “You realize that Chick Fil A has funded ads against the boss, right?  My response?  “I’ve been waiting all day for some stank comment – I like their chicken – period.”

Chicken cutlet slap anyone?

By 11:40 am, we were back on the road grinding toward New York.  Normally these are quiet rides with time to think and regroup after days of stress at the U.S. House.  But this time, Hunter, like a petulant child, decided that Alex was invading his space in the back seat and howled every time it happened, sometimes incessantly.  At one point, I had finally had it, and yelled out, “For the love of Christ, shut up!”  And to no avail, the howling continued, but at least I felt better expressing my displeasure verbally.

Gliding over the George Washington Bridge, which we reached in a record 4.5 hours, I posted, “Remember me to Herald Square” and swiftly continued my way rather smoothly through Manhattan, the Bronk and other outliers of the “City That Never Sleeps.”   Arriving in Connecticut, we hit the first rest stop to allow the dogs to take a potty, stretch and water break, and I headed inside to McDonalds to get a $1 coffee.  While patiently waiting in line, this nasty woman from Ohio blurted out her order when the cashier asked me, “Hi can I help you?’  I politely but sternly informed her that I had been waiting in line as she then proceeded to complain about the line system to me and anyone else who would listen.  I suggested that perhaps she should go back to Ohio.  Oh and the Facebook posting for Connecticut? Nothing clever, just a shoutout to my Jrs’s buddy Jimmy Lee who hails from Connecticut. 

Back on the road after a second $50 gas fillup, we slogged through the two hour stretch that is Connecticut and finally hit Massachusetts.  I quickly posted, “It was the shot heard round the world, it was the start of the Revolution” from School House Rock.  Props to one of my longest running best friends, Miss Irene, for properly identifying its origin.  An hour later, we hit New Hampshire where again I couldn’t think up a musical selection, so I used the old “Live Free or Die” standby. 

And then, like a beacon in the night, the Piscataqua Bridge, which connects Maine and New Hampshire, appeared on the horizon.  Excitement, intertwined with pure exhaustion, surged through my body.  I crossed the green monstrosity of a bridge, and then I saw it – the game changer according Anya Trundy – the new ever so tiny sign attached to the far larger sign welcoming visitors and returning residents alike to Maine – the Way Life Should Be.  The new sign I would later learn had been attached only a few days before by our new Governor, and it read, “Open for Business.”

“Well thank God” I thought.  The economy has been fixed, all Mainers have health care, tax reform has been implemented, and hunger, poverty and homelessness have been eradicated all because of this new sign!  Businesses by the hoards must have flocked to Maine at Lepage’s urging and literally transformed our state’s economy overnight.  “Phew!”  I didn’t realize that one small sign could do so, so much. 

As I made my way through the streets of the Old Port, my home in Portland, Maine, the sun began to set, and the temperature which had been 68 degrees earlier that day quickly plummeted.  I headed to the fourth floor of 99 Silver Street, my Old Port condo, located in an old shoe factory replete with brick walls and exposed beams.  I opened the door to my hermetically sealed room from the past 6 weeks and nestled high upon my armoire next to the tv was the real game changer for my trip home – Ultimate Reds from my dear roommate Charlie, bookended by an Avitar greeting.  There’s nothing like a blast of anti-oxidants coupled with some fresh Maine air to eliminate weeks of accumulated DC stress.

It’s good to be home!  I'll be spending the week looking for game changers.